


detain my tears (stop all my emotions)

by bishopsknifetrick (cherryblossomstump)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Alternate Universe - Spirits, Fluff, Haunted Houses, M/M, No Smut, Seven Deadly Sins, Supernatural Elements, i promise it sounds much more dark than it really is, like they fight but u know it's gonna be fine, no angst absolutely nothing, thats a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-04-27 23:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14436684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossomstump/pseuds/bishopsknifetrick
Summary: Pete Wentz, riding the waves of depression and giving up hope on attempting to swim, finds himself kicked out of his apartment after missing too many payments. With nowhere else to go, he turns to the last page of a realtor's website, hoping to find something within his price range. He has to be careful, though... His new house comes with seven souls, all supposed to send darkness after him to swallow him whole.---yes i used that one tumblr prompt about the seven deadly sins turning nice and yes i am a little ashamed





	detain my tears (stop all my emotions)

**Author's Note:**

> so, i started this story in november and promptly forgot about it, so this is grossy overdue. it's my first multichaptered fic, first one that i actually attempted to plan out, and still very un-betaed. it's been a while since i've written so... its rough.
> 
> i modeled the characters very loosely off of members of bandom, mostly for a visual since i deviated from what their actual personalities are quite a bit. if you really want a reference, i imagined sloth as joe, gluttony as gerard, wrath as frank, envy as ryan, greed as brendon, pride as srar!patrick for some reason (even though patrick is the love interest), and lust as william. these are just my interpretations, so feel free to characterize them as you wish!
> 
> this is the first half of the story, the second half will be coming as soon as i can get it fixed up.

_2017_

Pete felt the floor drop out beneath him. “You’re kidding.”

 

The landlord shook his head, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, Wentz. You know I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to, but I don’t have a choice. City’s riding my ass on it.”

 

Pete threw a despairing glance around his decrepit apartment. It was dark, dirty, and the only place he’d been able to afford since he’d moved out of his parents’ house. The “starving artist” thing just _really_ wasn’t working out for him. He turned his eyes back on the man in front of him. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?”

 

The man nodded sadly, and Pete’s shoulders slumped. “I’m really sorry.”

 

The brunet dragged a hand down his face, expelling a harsh breath. “That’s just _great_.”

 

The bright red eviction notice mocked him from the hand of the landlord. 

 

“Tell you what,” the guy said, and Pete’s chest soared with a fleeting moment of hope. “I can help you look for another place, and if we can’t find anything I’ll pull some strings and get you a place to stay.”

 

Pete was tempted to argue to try and get a better deal out of this, but then he remembered just how close he was to being booted to the streets. That helped set his priorities straight. 

 

“Thank you so much,” he said instead. And that was that.

 

~~~

 

Pete laid on the bed, head under his arms and legs spread out, not even attempting to sleep. Without looking, he knew that there were boxes stacked around him, filled to the brim with belongings he might have to sell in order to find a place to live. The thought filled him with a particular kind of sadness, and he turned his back to them and began staring at the wall.

 

He slipped into an uneasy sleep as the sun crept up the horizon outside his window.

 

~~~

 

The knocking startled him, and he jerked awake, falling to the floor.

 

He groaned, letting out a string of expletives as he sat up, rubbing his elbow and glaring at his bedroom door. “I’m coming!” he called, as he untangled his legs from the blankets and stood up, shivering at the cold air that hit his body. He took his time getting to the door, catching a glimpse of his face in the hall mirror and wrinkling his nose at his sleep-altered features. If this is what he looked like every morning, no wonder nobody had stuck around.

 

He pulled the door open, fully expecting an angry neighbor or even Jehovah’s Witness, but instead came face to face with the landlord, whirring computer tucked under his arm.

 

“Oh, fuck,” he said. “Was that today?”

 

The landlord hummed, smiling brightly. “Yep! I got my laptop with me, and I’ve set off my landlord duties for today, so let’s get started!”

 

Pete took one look at his happy demeanor and fought back the glower making its way to his face. It was too early to exist.

 

He invited the man in, and set to work making some coffee for the both of them, hyperaware that soon this apartment wouldn’t be his anymore. The landlord settled into a chair at the kitchen table, making himself comfortable as the laptop whirred to life. Pete brought their coffee over, and the man sipped at it cheerily, apparently not noticing the tired expression on Pete’s face. “Let’s begin!” he boomed.

 

They went through some real estate site, clicking through houses that were _way_ out of Pete’s budget until they came to his price range- depressingly cheap.

 

“Here’s a… nice one,” the landlord says, still trying to be cheerful.

 

“Nice one,” Pete echoes blankly staring at the screen. There’s no way that this could even be considered ‘nice’. Or even a house, really.

 

“We’ll just keep looking,” the man says, but his brow has an uncertain slant to it.

 

Unfortunately for them, the listings just get even more run down as time goes on. Pete doesn’t even want to _think_ about some of the things he’s sure these houses have been through. He wouldn’t want to go within 50 miles of them without a hazmat suit. 

 

“Last page,” says the landlord, expression now carrying worry. “Don’t worry, this isn’t our last resort.”

 

Pete holds back a snort.

 

“This one?” he asks, and Pete honestly has to hold back laughter. Is he actually joking?

 

“It’s in good shape,” the landlord continues, squinting to see the listing details better. “Been up on the market for a couple years, but not out of date. Still has running water, at least.”

 

At least?

 

“And hey, would you look at that! It’s right in your price range, too. You just have to pay taxes for the utilities, ‘cause you’d be buying the property.”

 

The house looks ancient. The windows would probably shatter if anything stronger than a soft breeze hit it, the exterior is faded and peeling, and Pete’s surprised there is even a door on the thing, judging by how fragile it looks.

 

“It’s… perfect,” he says without an ounce of emotion in his voice. “Just what I wanted.”

 

The landlord doesn’t seem to notice, as his cheerful demeanor seems to be back. He claps his hands excitedly. “That settles it, then! House is yours! I’ll get in contact with the realtor right away.”

 

Pete stares blankly as the landlord lets himself out of the apartment. “Yay for me,” he says darkly, before turning and going right back to bed. 

 

~~~

 

The day finally arrives when Pete is set to move out. Plans have been finalized for days, and the entire thing will go like this: the moving truck will arrive at 9:30 in the morning. When everything is loaded in, Pete will stay behind for a little bit, handing over the apartment keys to the landlord and tying up loose ends, and then he’ll get to the house in time to tip the drivers and wallow in self pity.

 

Come seven-thirty, and Pete is awake, but not moving. He _really_ wishes that he didn’t have to move out today, of all the days in the week. Today will not be a good day for him. He can feel it already.

 

Still, he crawls out of bed (conscience howling at him to stay curled up between the warm sheets), and slumps off to the kitchen, anticipating the shit-ton of coffee he’ll need to stay polite through this. If he had a little more manners, he could probably do it just fine without the help of caffeine, but he’s a crabby insomniac and and right now he doesn’t want to deal with the fake smiles of people who expect him to act like an adult.

 

When the truck drivers show up, Pete’s still huddled over his mug of coffee in his threadbare blue pajama pants and no shirt. Though he’s really not in a presentable state, he throws the door open anyway and relishes in their shocked faces when they see his necklace of thorns.

 

“Boxes are this way,” he gestures vaguely, smirking into his cup despite the circumstances.

 

The full gravity of the situation crashes down on him about a half hour later. He’s losing his _house_ \- well, apartment really, but that’s semantics and _so not important_ right now. God, if it hadn’t been for the generosity of the landlord, he’d probably be out on the streets.

 

He winds up having to hide out in the bathroom until he can get his emotions under control.

 

He reemerges a little while later, more helpful than before; he directs the men around his house to all the straggling boxes, thanks them as they carry the last one out, and even manages to keep himself together as he watches them drive off with his belongings. It still _hurts_ , even though he knows that they’re not actually taking his stuff for good. Once they’re out of sight, though, he allows himself to fall apart.

 

He allows himself to cry silently, not really sure why this is affecting him so much. There’s just something about the fact that he’s losing his _house_ that seems to making this extremely hard on him. Swiping at his tears a little while later, he looks out the window for the last time- the dingy street he swears he hates, the stupid flickering streetlamp, the little curb he always seems to trip on- and sighs, taking the jingling keys out of his pocket and walking out the door.

 

He never looks back.

 

~~~~~~~~

 

One glance around his new house, and Pete was ready to move out.

 

If at all possible, the place was even _more_ run down than his old apartment. The furniture was sheet covered and caked in dust, there were cobwebs in almost every imaginable place, and the windows were covered in a thick layer of grime. A search of the cabinets turned up various dead insects- with mice in the bathroom- and the stairs creaked with every step he took. _I just can’t wait to be killed by ghosts today_ he thinks. 

 

He drops a large box in the foyer, keeping a smaller one in his hands, and listens to the resounding thunk throughout the house. It kicks up a patch of dust that he attempts to ward off by swiping his hand through the air. It doesn’t quite work, and he swears he can feel the dust motes setting over his lungs, too. Dragging him down with this ancient monstrosity.

 

He ventures farther into the hallways, shoes clicking on the floor and resonating throughout the empty house. It’s eerie, sending a little shiver down Pete’s spine. The light barely penetrates the windows, which are dusty and caked with the grime of being untouched for years. _This was a really bad idea_ , he thinks as he turns the corner. He looks up from watching his feet move and he sees-

 

There’s someone standing there.

 

Pete _screams_ , dropping whatever he was holding and ducking back behind the wall. _The fuck is going on?_

 

“Hello?” the figure asks. Pete stops breathing out of fear, because he’s let the intruder know his location already and _fuck, he’s gonna die_.

 

“Hey there!” The figure is suddenly standing in front of him, grinning happily as it holds a hand out… to shake?”

 

“You must be the new resident!” He continues cheerfully. “Welcome, welcome to your new home! I’m Sloth and I’ll be your tour guide for today.”

 

“What the fuck,” he pants, coming out of _cardiac arrest, Jesus fucking Christ_. “kind of name is ‘Sloth’?”

 

“Whoa, okay, no need to be rude about it,” he says, just as _another_ shape comes into view. He may or may not squeak in fear, but if he does, that’s his business.

 

“C’mon, Sloth, do you really need to terrify the newbies every time?”

 

Pete’s eyes are wide as he looks between the two.

 

“Well, I mean-” Sloth starts.

 

“No,” the other one says. “Cut it out, it’s not funny. I’m serious.”

 

Yeah, Pete’s gonna die.

 

“But, _Pride_ -” Sloth whines, prompting a hand in his face. The message was clear: _Don’t even start with me._

 

“Nope, I’m not listening. Grab him and we’ll go meet the others.”

 

“ _Others?_ ” Pete whispers, startled as an ice cold hand grips his arm. He’s absolutely terrified.

 

“Yeah!” Sloth says, offering no more information

 

By this point, Pete is absolutely convinced that he’s stumbled upon some gang war and is about to get murdered. As it is, he’s debating the finer points of trying to run. Is it worth it to risk a bullet in his back? Fuck, he’s depressed, yeah, but he doesn’t want to _die_.

 

“Here we are,” Pride says, walking into a sprawling room. The house may be old, but it’s also _huge_. “Just leave him on the couch.”

 

Sloth attempts to sit him down, but Pete’s terror is slowly ebbing away and he finds himself glaring. “No thanks, I’d prefer to stand,” he snaps.

 

The dude looks wholly unconcerned. “Alright, but you still might wanna sit.”

 

Pete shakes his head petulantly and Pride sighs. “Fine, whatever, do it your way. You can come out now, guys.”

 

More figures appear in the doorway, body language radiating curiosity. They don’t _seem_ hostile, not at first glance, but he doesn’t want to make fast assumptions in case he’s stumbled into some sort of… _gang war_ , or something. Forgetting all about his obstinacy, he sinks down onto the couch cushions. He doesn’t miss the smirk that appears on Sloth’s face.

 

“What the fuck is going on?,” he mumbles, still trying to comprehend the situation.

 

“Hey, man,” one of them greets as another peeks around his shoulder. “Is there a problem?”

 

“Oh, hi!” he hears, and turns to see a person shoving their way through the group huddled in the doorway. “My name’s Greed. What’s yours?” 

 

“Pete Wentz,” he says, dumbfounded. It’s getting a little concerning, really.

 

The one with _spectacular_ curls, Sloth, repeats it through a yawn. He’s not so scary now that he looks like he’s going to fall asleep on the spot. “That’s cool. Where’d you go to?”

 

They all groan. “Cut it out, Sloth,” one with brilliant red hair says. “Your jokes are literally _killing_ us over here.”

 

“Gluttony!” says another, looking horrified. “You’re not supposed to engage him!”

 

Gluttony, apparently, is giggling with Sloth. “Oh come on, that was comedy gold!”

 

The leader- Pride, Pete remembers- rolls his eyes. “Just. No.”

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Pete says, “But who are you guys?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” another says. He’s roughly the width of a twig and drowning in what looks to be paisley-print scarves. “We’re the seven deadly sins.”

 

There’s a charged silence before Pete laughs. “Okay, seven deadly sins. That’s cool. Are you supposed to corrupt me or something?”

 

Lust- or the one Pete _assumes_ is Lust, judging by his sharp cheekbones and a faint aura that reminds Pete of desire- gapes at him. “You’re- you’re just- that’s it?”

 

Pete shrugs. “Do you want me to do something? I could scream and run around, maybe.”

 

One whose name he doesn’t know looks at him like he’s crazy. He’s not so sure he isn’t. “You’re very calm about this.”

 

“It’s been a long day,” he responds absently, examining the walls. “I’ll probably freak out later, once the…. _novelty_ of my new home wears off.”

 

Gluttony frowns at him. “It’s not that bad-”

 

“You are _semi-corporeal_ ,” says Sloth. “Of course it’s not as big of an issue to you. No offense, Pride, but this place is not in the best shape.”

 

Pride quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not disagreeing with you. It’s not like we chose to be here.”

 

“So you’re stuck here, then?” Pete says, dragging his attention away from the rapturous water stain on the ceiling. “You just, what, can’t get up and leave?”

 

“Nope,” the spirit the human’s deduced to be Envy says, popping the “p” and sprawling on the couch. Pete half-expects him to just sink through the couch, and is somewhat surprised when he doesn’t. “Not by ourselves, at least. We can go with a human, though.”

 

“Huh,” Pete says, but his attention is drifting again. He finds himself staring at Lust, who wiggles his hips comedically and smirks. “Like what you see?”

 

Sloth scoffs. Lust flips him off.

 

“What exactly _are_ you guys, then?” Pete inquires, trying for polite. He’s not quite sure if he makes it. “Are you guys, like, the literal embodiment of the seven deadly sins?”

 

“That’s a great question,” the last one says, but doesn’t offer any other explanation. Pete gets the feeling he’s just like that. Running through what he can remember of his education in his head, this one’s probably Wrath.

 

“We prefer ‘spirit’ or ‘ghost’,” Envy says, examining his nails.

 

Gluttony nods, looking perfectly nonchalant. “We _were_ people once, y’know?”

 

Pete feels distantly alarmed. They were _people?_ “Uh, I didn’t actually.”

 

“Yeah,” Sloth says, raising his head from where he’s tucked into the corner of the couch. His eyes are still sleepy, hair still mussed. “Just regular people who became their worst quality when they died.”

 

“Did you all die here?” Pete wonders, half to himself and half to the sins.

 

“Some,” Wrath says shortly, but Pete dismisses it easily; it’s probably just a part of his personality, being the embodiment of anger or something. He’d be surprised if he were anything less than prickly.

 

“So how did you end up in our humble abode?” Envy’s voice drips with amusement and a hint of dry humor. “You don’t really seem like the type.”

 

Pete smiles and huffs a little laugh, even though he’s not quite sure if that was supposed to be a dig at him or the house. “I got kicked out of my old apartment- not a huge deal, but I lost contact with my parents years ago and I had nowhere else to go.”

 

Greed nods sympathetically. “I get that.”

 

And really, they’ve been nothing but kind (except for when they scared the shit out of him), but the emotion of the day has sapped his energy and he’s feeling a little anxious, a lot tired, and he just wants to get out. “I’m gonna… go to bed,” he says, quickly getting up and leaving the room.

 

Sloth waves as Envy calls, “Bye, Pete!”

 

He races up the stairs, panic crawling up his throat the farther away he gets from the ghosts. _God_. 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

The sun beats down on Pete’s shoulders, causing beads of sweat to roll down his face as he cracks his back. His hands are covered in dirt, so he uses the back of his wrist to swipe at the moisture, but he ends up getting the soil on his face anyway. Sighing, he turns back to his work, only to jump when Gluttony suddenly appears. “What’cha doing?” he asks.

 

Pete blinks stinging sweat away, not risking dirt in his eyeballs. “Gardening, I guess. It was looking _sad_ , man.”

 

Gluttony grins and sits down next to him, legs crossed like a schoolgirl’s. “I’m the only one who ever touched that, I think, and I can’t exactly do that anymo- well, I _can_ , but what’s the point?”

 

“...enjoyment?” Pete asks.

 

The spirit shrugs. “There’s no use for it now, anyways. Can’t eat.”

 

“You don’t have to give up something you love just because it’s not practical,” Pete says, looking over when Gluttony doesn’t respond. 

 

The ghost is staring at him with an unreadable look in his eye. “Thank you,” he says, getting up.

 

“You’re welcome?” Pete questions himself as the spirit walks away and back into the house. “Did I do something?”

 

“Yep,” Greed says from behind him, making him yelp. 

 

“How long have _you_ been here?” he asks accusingly as Greed settles himself down in the grass near him. “Were you eavesdropping?”

 

“No, I just caught the end of your conversation as I was walking past. You seriously don’t know what you did?”

 

“No,” Pete says, bewildered. “Was it bad?”

 

“No,” Greed responds, smiling. “Gluttony just had some… problems, in his lifetime. I’ll bet he wishes someone had said that to him when he was still alive.”

 

“Am I allowed to ask you if that lead to his death?”

 

“No, but I don’t think anyone _really_ knows for sure. It may have played a part, though.”

 

Pete nods, deciding to be satisfied with this answer as it’s the closest he’s ever gotten to one of their life stories. They’re not really forthcoming with much information, anyway.

 

“Is there, like, a particular reason you’re doing this?” Greed asks.

 

“Needed something to do,” Pete grunts, working at the dirt. It must be rockier than it seems, because it’s stubbornly sticking together.

 

“Besides mope?” Greed asks, but there’s no heat behind it; Pete shoots him a halfhearted glare anyway.

 

“That was… uncalled for…” Pete stabs at the ground one more time before slumping back, resting his weight on his heels. “I’m not getting _anywhere_ with this. God.”

 

Greed pats him on the back, somewhat mockingly. “It’s okay.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Pete sighs, bones cracking as he gets up. “I just wish that I could’ve gotten something right.”

 

There’s no response, so Pete turns to see if Greed left; he’s still there, a frown distorting his features. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

 

“Why not?” he asks, trying to clap the rest of the dirt off his hands.

 

“Just don’t,” is the answer, and Pete isn’t going to argue, not right now. 

 

They head into the house, cool air drying the sweat pooling on Pete’s skin, making him clammy and uncomfortable as it settles. He swipes ineffectually at his hairline, hands still caked in dirt, before giving up and heading up the stairs, desperate for a shower. The water pressure that came with the old house was surprisingly good for a building that looks like it was too ancient to have been introduced to it.

 

When he's done, he steps out, carefully toweling off because he hates the feeling of dampness between his clothes. Picking out his softest pajamas, he makes sure he'll be cozy as the temperature goes down outside and eventually decides he can just build a fire if he's uncomfortable. He nods in satisfaction, happy that the old fireplace would finally be getting some attention.

 

As expected, the spirits are all in the living room , relaxing on furniture and watching TV. As if they read his thoughts, there's a fire roaring in the fireplace, and he makes sure to thank the ghost closest to him. It's Sloth, who murmurs a "you're welcome" before snapping his fingers and sitting up straight.

 

"Ah," he says, as if he just remembered something super important. "We were gonna ask you: do you feel anything different with yourself, like there's and unknown influence inside of you?"

 

_What?_

 

"No...?" he answers slowly, blinking up at the spirit. "Nothing more than usual, I don't think."

 

"More than usual?" Now Gluttony is involved. "You mean you regularly feel dark?"

 

"If this is some thing about you corrupting my soul..." Pete sits up a little straighter and bites at his lip. "It's just, you know, depression, that sort of thing. Not like... an outside force?

 

Sloth looks satisfied, but Lust only looks worried. "Is that why it's so hard to get you to smile?

 

He's at a loss for words for a moment. Are they trying to... _fix_ him or something? "I... I guess so. I don't really understand why you're asking, though."

 

"Isn't it obvious?" Greed asks, and Pete realizes they've attracted the attention of all the spirits. "We're going to help you put yourself together."

 

Pete doesn't even think before the words slip past his lips. "It's not worth it."

 

Envy blinks, cocking his head and staring at him. Pete squirms a little, wishing he could steal the words back.

 

He doesn’t know why they’re bothering. Nothing can fix him, not with how broken he is.

 

~~~~~~~

 

When Pete comes downstairs the next morning, the only spirit in sight is Sloth.

 

Instead of joining him right away, Pete detours to the kitchen to rummage through the cupboards. There’s nothing good, really. He can’t remember the last time he actually made a trip out of the house in days. He gets lucky, though, and his searching turns up a bowl of cereal with a dubious-looking spoon, which he quickly cleans and wipes on his shirt.

 

Sloth blinks at him when he walks into the living room and sinks into the cushions. “Sleep well?” he asks.

 

Pete shakes his head absently, directing most of his attention to the television. “Nope. You?”

 

The spirit nods. “But you probably guessed that already.”

 

Pete cracks a small smile, still watching the TV. “Yep.”

 

“Why don’t you sleep now?” Sloth asks, looking more alert with each passing second. Dust motes dance in the rays of sunlight cast in through the window. “Y’know, if you’re still tired.”

 

“Not all of us can fall asleep anywhere, Sloth,” Pete says, choosing not to be bitter about this.

 

“Wait, really?” asks Sloth, except he actually sounds surprised. “Is that why you look so tired all the time?”

 

Fuck. He shouldn’t have said that.

 

“I guess,” he says slowly, hoping that the spirit will drop it. He doesn’t, though, and simply follows Pete into the kitchen when he tries to escape. 

 

“So is it just… you can’t sleep?”

 

“Yeah. My brain just won’t shut off,” he replies absently, starting to pour himself more coffee.

 

Sloth squints at him. Usually his sleepy demeanor would be a certain degree of endearing, but now it just serves to remind him of the meager two hours he got last night. “I don’t understand.”

 

Pete sighs. “It’s a little complicated.”

 

Sloth nods, but still looks confused. “If you have problems sleeping, did you sleep at all last night?”

 

Pete shrugs as the coffee maker dings, and he begins to pour himself a cup. “Two hours, maybe? God, I don’t know. Not much.”

 

Sloth scrunches his face up. “No, don’t drink that.”

 

Pete stares him right in the face as he brings the mug up to his lips to take a sip- but the mug is gone.

 

“What the fuck?” he says.

 

Sloth is looking at him, having plucked the cup right out of his loose grip. “No, you’re not going to drink that, because you’re going to sleep.”

 

Pete laughs humorlessly, rubbing at one eye and heading back into the living room, resigned to the fact that he’s been deprived of his coffee. “Would if I could, Sloth.”

 

The spirit follows him silently, and sinks down next to him as he sprawls on the couch, head on the armrest. None of the other ghosts have appeared yet, and it’s just them. The outdated TV flickers, a soap opera that Gluttony loves playing on the screen.

 

He feels a touch on his shoulder and looks up, confused, as Sloth cocks his head at him. A warm feeling begins to spread through his limbs, and the air around them might as well be the consistency of syrup with how hard it is to move them.

 

“What’re you doing?” he slurs, neck wobbling with the effort it takes to hold it up. 

 

“Helping you sleep,” Sloth says simply, and Pete’s out like a light. 

 

~~~

 

When Pete wakes, hours later, the sun is low in the sky and he feels better rested than he maybe ever has. His neck cracks when he stretches, bones popping into place as he drags himself off the couch to stand, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. There’s still nobody in sight, though it’s not hard for him to find them- there’s a steady trail of noise that he can follow, and it leads him to the… basement?

 

Confused, he slopes down the stairs, interested in figuring out what could _possibly_ be happening to create all of that noise. He can detect shouting, that’s for sure, but it seems more the “fun” kind than the “angry” kind. He can’t even hear the stairs creak as he creeps down them to see what’s going on.

 

“Pete!” Envy crows when he spots him, suspiciously loud. His eyes twinkle from where he’s laying on the couch with a spark they don’t usually hold. 

 

“What is- are you _drunk_?” he asks, bewildered and confused because Envy is a _ghost_.

 

“‘Lil tipsy,” he slurs concedingly. The human spots a familiar clear bottle full of sloshing liquid in his right hand. _Really_ familiar.

 

“Are you _stealing my alcohol?_ ” Pete demands, eyebrows raised in shock.

 

“Issnot _stealing_ ,” he says, pausing to take a swig. “You took our house first.” The “s” sounds like a “z”, and Pete fights back a laugh at how drunk he is.

 

“Okay, Envy, I think you’ve had enough,” Sloth tries, cracking his neck from where he’s lounging on and abandoned sofa Pete didn’t even know he had. “Seriously, you’ve been drinking for hours.”

 

Pete furrows his brows, questioning, but spots the growing pile of empty bottles by Envy’s arm and wisely keeps his mouth shut.

 

Gluttony is deep in discussion with Wrath in the corner, gesticulating wildly as the other spirit laughs along. Lust is in the general vicinity, doing god knows what, flitting around back and forth. He spots Sloth and Pride on the couch, seemingly relaxing, but Greed is nowhere to be found.

 

“What exactly is going on?” he asks, instead of the question burning at the tip of his tongue.

 

Sloth turns an eye on him and gives a lazy grin. “We’re just having fun, dude, c’mon.”

 

“By getting _drunk?_ ” he asks, shooting an oblivious Envy a pointed look. “I didn’t even know spirits could get drunk! How does that even happen?”

 

Sloth shrugs, looking particularly lethargic- which is saying a lot. “Your guess is as good as ours? We never really sat down to discuss the logistics of things. Just kinda accepted it.”

 

Pete turns an eye on the other spirits, pointedly not looking at Envy. “This a common occurrence?”

 

“No,” Pride answers as he sweeps past. “Only once in a while. You should go to bed, though. I know you just took a nap, but you can’t mess up your sleep schedule _too_ much.” And with a wink, he’s gone.

 

“Is it just me, or is everyone acting really weird?” Pete asks, shooting a glance to Sloth, but the ghost has already fallen asleep himself. 

 

Seriously?

 

Pete sighs and trudges up to his room. This is all too weird, really.

 

~~~~~~

 

“You’re going out tonight,” Lust announces, with the air of someone who is determined to get their way.

 

Pete blinks in surprise, cocking his head. He’s in the dining room, rummaging around in the cabinets for leftover dishes and things the previous owners might have left behind. There’s a pile of dusty china growing on the table. “What if I don’t want to go out?”

 

“Too bad,” the spirit huffs, tugging the human by the arm out the door, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. He throws open the doors to the closet dramatically. “You, my friend, need to get up off your ass and _socialize_.”

 

Pete scrunches his nose in distaste. “Is it really necessary?”

 

Lust scoffs at him. “Yes, it’s _necessary_. You spend all of your time with dead people, time to get back into the land of the living.”

 

“Humans are boring,” Pete offers, sprawling across the bed as Lust tosses a pair of black jeans at his head. (He misses). “At least you guys have good stories.”

 

“Stories are stories. You need to go write your own.”

 

“Ew, that’s so cheesy. Never say that again.”

 

“I won’t if you go out,” Lust counters, shooing him off the bed after handing him a shirt. “Up up up, gotta get dressed.”

 

“I’m going to hate this,” Pete mumbles to himself as he makes his way to the bathroom to change. “God, this will be the worst.”

 

~~~

 

Surprisingly, he does not end up hating it.

 

Last time Pete went to a club, the alcohol had been shitty and the music even worse. After that night, where it helped solve exactly zero of his problems, he just resolved not to waste his time anymore. However, the sheer force of Lust’s will is the _only_ reason why he’s even here in the first place, nursing a drink in the general vicinity of the bar.

 

(He will never, never admit that maybe, just maybe, Lust had been a teensy bit right in shoving him out the door.)

 

It’s almost exactly how he remembers it; the music creates a second heart in his chest, to the point where he’s almost convinced it’s the bassline pumping his blood through his veins. It’s nearly sweltering, with the body heat radiating off of jubilant partygoers, but the more alcohol Pete downs the more he finds himself being drawn into the crowd, wants to let loose and get drunk and come home covered in sweat. It awakens something nostalgic in him, it really does, reminding him how much he missed _living_.

 

The eye candy helps, too. Men and women alike glance at him, lower their eyelids, beckoning him over to dance, but he merely smiles and shakes his head before watching them search for another to grind on. He knows he’s being watched, observed, waits for someone to actually approach him, but they all seem content to view from afar. It’s fine  
with him; better not to form an attachment to anyone here, because he knows he won’t be going home with anyone tonight. He’s here for himself, and himself only.

 

The song changes, beat morphing into something sensual and dirty, encouraging increasingly lecherous behavior from clubbers who can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves (and out of someone else’s pants). At that moment, the lights sweep out over the club- and he looks across the dancefloor and finds literal perfection.

 

His mouth opens as he stares, enraptured. Chopped, dirty blonde hair plastered to a forehead with sweat. Bright eyes lined with dark, smudged eye makeup. A mouth, panting for breath in the crowded club, with the softest lips he’s ever seen. The man in question is flitting around the floor, swaying slightly to the beat, dancing along with intoxicated partygoers with an almost sultry smile.

 

Pete has no clue how long he’s been staring. He’s just trying to figure out how to get this flawless person into his life- among other, less innocent places, too.

 

Then he catches the man’s eye.

 

He absolutely cannot help the way his cheeks immediately heat up and he has to look away shyly. Oh _God_ , he’s completely lost any and all of his game. Adulthood did a number on him. He risks another glance up and yep, the guy is staring at hi- did he just _wink_?

 

The man begins to make his way over, and Pete is completely sure of his death. He is absolutely deceased. There is no way someone like _that_ would even want to waste a second of their time looking at _him_.

 

Finally, they come face to face, and Pete has lost all of his motor function. He’s frozen to the spot, still gazing upon the picture perfect man grinning up at him.

 

“Hey,” is the only thing he says, and Pete just. Immediately forgets the entire English language. To make up for this, his body tries to play it cool and lean against something- anything would be fine, really, but he ends up picking a chair, which immediately yields under his weight and sends him tumbling to the floor.

 

A group of drunk frat boys immediately bursts into drunken laughter, as Pete considers throwing himself off a bridge. He’s completely embarrassed himself in front of the guy he was trying to impress. His cheeks glow with humiliation.

 

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m okay,” Pete says, waving off the guy’s advances and dragging himself to his feet. He winces as his probably-bruised hip aches in protest. “God, I can’t believe that happened.”

 

The blonde laughs, and Pete is entranced. It takes a moment for him to snap out of his stupor and realize he’s _talking_.

 

“- always this smooth?”

 

“I...” Pete says, at a loss for words.

 

The guy beams at him. It’s possibly the most beautiful thing that’s been directed at the brunet in years. “Think maybe a drink will fix that?”

 

Pete splutters as the guy laughs again. _What happened to being cool, dumbass?_

 

“Sure!” he says, maybe a little too enthusiastic. Oh, whatever, the dude already knows that he’s the complete opposite of suave.

 

The stranger buys him a drink, something clear and sweet that burns his throat as he sips at it. It has a bit higher alcohol content than he’s used to, but he’ll gladly brave it if it means he’ll get to stay a little with him. 

 

“I’m Patrick,” he introduces himself.

 

“Pete,” he says faintly. Patrick must sense that he’s a little bit dazed, right now, because he settles back with an easy grin that helps the brunet to relax.

 

“Where are you from?” he asks, and wants to slap himself. God. That’s _not_ you you pick up a handsome stranger.

 

“Evanston, originally but now I live in the city-”

 

“No way!” Pete’s eyes widen and he suddenly sits up straighter. “I was born in Wilmette, dude.”

 

Patrick flicks his hair out of his eyes and grins. “That’s so cool! What high school?”

 

“New Trier,” Pete says, taking another sip of his drink.

 

“Glenbrook,” Patrick says, twisting his mouth to the side a little bit. It’s insanely cute, even as he’s waving the bartender down for more shots. “Tell me more?”

 

And that’s kinda when things go blurry.

 

Pete tends to be an oversharer when he gets drunk, and he has no idea what he’s saying. Could he be talking about his childhood pets? Or the time he tried to kill himself? The fact that there are seven ghosts living in his current home? He has no idea. There’s a haze around the edges of his vision, making his actions sloppier, causing him so get more affectionate as the night goes on. When, finally, the two decide that they’ve had enough, they’re stumbling out of the club and into the cool September air.

 

“Okay, okay,” Pete giggles, throwing an arm around his handsome companion. “I had fun, dude. Like lots.”

 

“Yeah, me too,” Patrick sighs. The slightly chilly air seems to help them begin to sober up. “How’re you getting home?”

 

“Cab, maybe. I don’t know.” It’s seeming more and more likely, especially since his house _is_ kinda far from town.

 

“You could come home with me?” the blonde offers, but Pete’s shaking his head no even as his dick is screaming yes.

 

“No, dude we literally just met,” he says instead. “Lemme take you out to dinner, first.”

 

“I didn’t mean it like _that_ -” Patrick protests, and suddenly they’re both laughing again.

 

“Nah, I’ll be alright,” he says, breaking away and ruffling the other’s hair. His body yells at him to move back, to steal some of that body heat. “I’ll tell you though, I _won’t_ be alright if I don’t get your number.”

 

“Oh, really?” Patrick presses up against him, reaching for Pete’s phone, which he had taken out of his pocket already. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s basically draped himself over Pete, who has suddenly lost the ability to speak. The brunet watches his hands dance across the keyboard, inputting his number, and is almost surprised when the phone is slid back into his pocket- jesus, Patrick’s hand is _touching his ass_ -and the blonde steps back, smirking.

 

“See you.” Patrick throws a wink his way, and disappears into the night, ducking under streetlamps and hurrying home.

 

He ditches the cab idea and walks all the way home, grinning with the memory of blue eyes and curled lips promising to see him again.

**Author's Note:**

> i dont... i dont know how pete gets all of that money ok i never wrote him having a job except for a starving artist?? lets pretend he has an inheritance or something
> 
> also i tried out a different characterization for patrick that will come into play later and... he kinda got away from me ok


End file.
